Like a Switch
by Bon Katze
Summary: This is made of angst. Peeta drinks to forget, and Cato doesn't understand. Peeto/Peetato slash


"_It's like a switch, clickin' off in my head. Turns the hot light off and the cool one on, and all of a sudden there's peace." – Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_

Peeta did a lot of drinking these days.

Ever since the games had ended, and the peculiar pair of Cato and Peeta had returned to district twelve for peace and solitude – had returned, in part, to escape the media and the masses and all of the people so goddamn thankful for their part in the revolution, so goddamn thankful for the boy on fire and his strong-willed counterpart – Peeta had taken to drinking.

Cato didn't notice when it started. He had no reason to suspect his gentle baker would allow himself to descend so harshly into a reality where Katniss hadn't died in the arena, where Cato hadn't offered him the berries, where Snow hadn't hung their executions over their heads like a sick bough of mistletoe. When Peeta had come home, tasting mildly of something strong and foul, he assumed the baker had dipped into some of the supply he used to make rum-cakes over at the bakery, and far be it for Cato to deny his love a drink. He also drank, some nights, over dinner. He would pour himself a glass from the fancy bottle of scotch they had ordered from the capital, and would indulge, once in a while, in the sweet reverie of a drink. Peeta would never join him, preferring tea, or coffee, or something sweet. Cato hadn't blamed him. And so, when Peeta began drinking, he didn't take particular notice. When Peeta grew distant, and often times turned his back away from Cato while they slept, and did not return his affection so amorously as he had before, Cato brushed it off and the baker needing his space. God only knew sometimes he needed time away from other people. He would grant his love the same.

But then it had worsened. Each week, it seemed, the taste of their kisses grew more bitter in flavor, until one day, months after it had all begun, Peeta came home, stumbling, and reeking of something flagrant, as though it had been festering in the hob for some time. That was when Cato noticed. He had watched, concerned, as Peeta cooked dinner for them that night, refusing any help and bumbling around the kitchen as a drunkard would. When he had reached to take the roast from the oven, he had nearly burned his hands, forgetting to wrap them in a cloth before removing the pan. That was where Cato had drawn the line. He had held Peeta against his chest, quiet, as he struggled, until the baker was exhausted. Then he had lead Peeta to the couch, where they sat for quite a long time, with an uneaten roast cooling on the stove top and the kitchen, in its state of disarray, abandoned. They stayed like that, Peeta dozing in the fitful way of intoxication, and Cato, holding him close and wondering how Peeta had come to this point – how he had allowed Peeta to come to this point.

The next morning, when Peeta had insisted he be allowed to go to the bakery, even through his pounding headache and his dry mouth, and even though Cato assured him that they had more than enough money and Peeta could afford to miss a day of work or two, he had finally relented. Peeta needed this. He needed time away. And Cato needed time to think. So he kissed him hard on the mouth, and held him a beat longer than he normally would, as if to offer some kind of divine forgiveness, and then he let him go.

Cato had his own business to take care of. Not long after Peeta had disappeared from the view of the front porch, Cato had made his way two doors over to Haymitch's house. He hadn't knocked, even though all of the lights were off. Probably the haggard old man was passed out at his kitchen table like always, with a knife nearby. Cato knew he could defend himself against a hung-over Haymitch with a kitchen knife. He pushed against the door, then tested the handle, and let himself in, all in a very smooth, very hasty manner. He didn't wipe his feet on the mat.

Haymitch had passed out sometime last night, he hardly knew when, after about his third or fourth glass of Greasy Sae's moonshine. He had tried to sleep, honestly, but they never ceased to plague him; the memories of his hunger games, the screams of Maysilee, and the way her eyes latched onto his own, pleadingly, desperately. Those eyes were often the source of his nightmares. Those haunting eyes that would not let him forget.

And then, after the Hunger Games that had taken Katniss, the prolific hunter from District 12, there were more eyes. More sets of eyes that bore into his own in accusation. He was a murderer. Katniss, and Maysilee, and the eyes of every child before Katniss, every now-dead tribute gazed right into his very soul. So he drank. He drank until he could not see those eyes any longer. And finally there was peace.

He had fully expected for the following morning to carry on in the same way it always had; he would wake from his stupor to an empty house, a knife stuck in the table beside him, and the sun streaking in through his filthy, unkempt windows. He should have learned never to expect anything. The next morning, a headache had not awoken him, but the sounds of angry stomping and the forced opening of his front door. He had sprung for his knife without thinking, before turning to glare at the offending figure at the door.

The hair was blonde, and the figure was fairly muscular. It was either Peeta or Cato, but he couldn't be sure with his vision so shoddy this early in the day. Not that it was particularly early, but considering Haymitch's internal clock hours, noon was, indeed, very early in his day. He relaxed his grip on the knife, knowing whoever was at the door was not a threat. The knife was yet another remnant of his Hunger Games days. He could not sleep without a weapon readily available.

In annoyance at the intrusion, and assuming it was Peeta back to beg another bottle of his stock of Greasy Sae's white liquor, Haymitch sneered at the figure in the doorway.

"What do you want, Princess?" There was an intonation of pity hidden within the sarcasm. With all his great displeasure at Peeta's habits, he could not judge, lest he be a hypocrite and a murderer.

"Only to talk."

The voice that replied was not that of the haggard Peeta he had seen in the last few days, but that of Cato, his begrudging accomplice. After the games, he had tolerated the tribute for Peeta's sake. That was, until Cato had come to him the night of the reaping for the quarter quell, shared a drink with him, and begged him for assistance. They would keep Peeta alive, together, at any cost. And for that, Haymitch warily accepted their alliance.

It was never a joy to see Cato, but it was always worthwhile. Haymitch muttered to himself, and motioned to the seat across from him at the table, before gathering a glass that at least appeared clean, and topping it off from his flask. He eyed Cato as he sat and accepted his drink.

"What do you need?" Haymitch asked, albeit irritably.

"I came to check on Peeta. Have you seen him recently?" Cato asked between mouthfuls of his drink. Whatever he was thinking about, it must have weighed on him heavily. In the three years he had known Cato, he had never been much of a drinker. Only occasionally did he indulge. He thought he ought to be truthful and come clean about Peeta's visits, but lied through his teeth instead.

"Not more than usual. He's stopped by a few times for a visit, but other tha-"

The knife that had previously rested upon the table beside him was now wedged between the two wooden slates in the table. A seething Cato clutched the handle. There was a violent look to his eyes.

"Don't lie to me," he ground out, eyes fixed on Haymitch's. Haymitch refused to back down, instead returning the stare with equal ferocity.

They stayed like that for quite a while, watching, at a stalemate, hoping for the other to back down. Neither did. Their stubbornness was too great. Finally Haymitch conceded.

"Let me tell you a story, sweetheart," Haymitch said. His composure was relaxed, and he reclined in his kitchen chair with his hands folded over his lap. His voice held a sarcastic lilt to it, but for the most part, he was being amiable. Cato relaxed and became enraptured rather quickly with the story Haymitch told.

Haymitch recalled the night the Quarter Quell had been announced. He had been at his table, drinking, when Cato had come and had a drink with him, begging the mentor to help him save Peeta. He had certainly given the tribute hell, as he didn't much care for District 2 or their self-entitled attitude, but had agreed to help because for once, Cato was asking something selfless. Cato remembered this night. It had not been long ago, and he had not yet succeeded in blocking out his misery from his memory. What came next he had not been aware of. Peeta had come not long after Cato had left, retiring to walk the district a bit and think before he headed home. He had screamed, threatened, even tried to bribe Haymitch into helping him save Cato. But Haymitch was a man of his word, and even though he had not told Peeta of his previous bargain, he had not given in, either. He had laughed in Peeta's face, complaining that their fool's luck in the first round would not last through a second games, and both would be dead before the initial bloodbath was over. Peeta had smiled rather evilly at this, and then busied himself rounding up every bottle of liquor and pouring it down the drain. Haymitch hadn't realized what he was doing until it was too late. And then, before he made his grand exit, Peeta had told him,

"You aren't going to let us die. We're going to train, like careers. And careers don't drink."

The story ended. They sat quiet for a minute, processing. And then Cato laughed. He let out a great cackle, and cut the tension in the room suddenly. He was laughing, choking on the idea. His Peeta, gathering all of the bottles around Haymitch's house, and the way Haymitch must have looked as he watched them being poured down the sink. It was priceless. His Peeta, trying to desperately to look threatening. He knew he shouldn't be laughing, but he was.

Then he sobered. He knew what he was going to do. He thanked Haymitch, shook his hand, much to Hay Mitch's chagrin, and sauntered out of the house and toward the hob. He was going to remind Peeta who he was. Peeta was smart, and caring, and compassionate, and did not need to drink to face his fears. He was going to fix Peeta through his love for the other.

When they had first moved to District 12, Cato had been appalled and the lack of resources. He knew that after the rebellion, most of the districts would need rebuilding, but the state of 12 suggested that it had never had anything to begin with. He had looked with pity for days after upon Peeta, who had never known the luxury he had. He had tried to entice Peeta into moving back to 2 with him, recounting the fabulous wares they could have at their fingertips if they lived in a district that had already been rich. But Peeta had insisted they live in his childhood home. He couldn't refuse Peeta anything. So he dealt with the rationing and the poor selections at the market. And then he had discovered the hob.

Cato had been meandering through the market square, which, during the reconstruction, had become considerably larger than it had been, although he had no way of knowing. But he hadn't found anything to particularly catch his eye. He had started to leave when he noticed a small crowd of people at a decrepit looking warehouse behind the market. After the rebellion, the surviving residents of the hob had rebuilt in a different building, unable to leave behind the life they had lived for so long. Cato had wandered over, walked inside, and been astounded.

There were so many people. The boy he recognized as Gale, Katniss' cousin, was dragging animal carcasses over to a woman with a cane and a large pot. There were various tables set up all around, where vendors sold wares he had yet to see in the market. It became a regular place of perusal for him.

Since his first discovery, he visited the hob occasionally, but had never tried to converse with anyone, or buy anything. This time, however, he wandered over to a table where a young, dark girl sat on a tall stool, her legs dangling.

"Mornin'," She had greeted him, with a toothy smile that was missing the front left tooth. He had forced a smile back at her. She spoke with an accent he recognized as that of the District 11 survivors who had moved to 12 after the rebellion. He looked around at her table, not finding much worth looking at. He was about to move on to the next table when something caught his eye.

In the corner of a box, beneath some useless-looking red tinsel, was what appeared to be a shiny gold ring. Cato maneuvered his hand into the box curiously, latching onto the gold trinket and lifting it from the mess. In his hand sat the token of Katniss Everdeen.

"What is this?" Cato asked in reverence. The girl smiled, and slid off her stool to more closely examine the pin.

"Oh, that?" She muttered. "That's that District 12 girl's pin from the games." She said this so nonchalantly, as though having the token of a tribute wasn't anything special. He supposed, now that the games were over, it wasn't.

"But where did you get it?" He looked up into her eyes, brightly, inquiring. She smiled so wide at his curiosity that her nose wrinkled and her high cheekbones nearly covered her eyes. She reached for the pin, snatching it up and holding it out in front of her gaze, examining it as though she was recalling some great occurrence.

"That tribute girl put it on my sister when she died. When they sent 'er back home in that casket they hadn't taken it off her clothes. We kep' it as like a thank you to her graciousness."

Her… sister? So this girl was Rue's sister? Cato hadn't known much of Rue, except that she was an ally of Katniss during the games, and that Peeta spoke often of her, idealizing her as the sort of innocence that the Capitol stole. He reached at her, palm open.

"Please, would you mind? I'd like to buy it. A friend of mine, he –" Cato choked on the words. He knew how much this pin would mean to Peeta, as a reminder of the girl he had loved. "It would mean a lot to him."

Rue's sister eyed him for a second, as if to evaluate his worth. Then she nodded, and gave him that same toothy smile.

"Here, have it," she said, placing it in his palm and closing his fingers around it. "We don't need a pin to remember her by. I'd rather someone else take it an' remember her, too."

Cato nodded at her, slightly. There weren't any words for him to thank her. But he knew she saw his gratitude in his eyes. He slipped the token into his pants pocket, and then shuffled off toward another table in search of something more.

When Cato finally finished at the hob, it was late outside. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky the brilliant orange that Peeta loved so much. He left with the hob with presents for Peeta. Katniss's pin was tucked safely away in his pocket. He had been a bit distracted when he had stopped to visit with Greasy Sae and ask if Peeta had bought anything from her lately. She had said no, but then wasted an exorbitant amount of time trying to push her soup upon him. He had kindly refused when he saw her eyes gleam at the mention of the "real beef" she used. He hardly knew where she would get beef in District 12, and didn't want to chance the stomach flu.

The walk back to his and Peeta's house in the Victor's Village was fairly short, the crisp night air biting at his bare skin. He hadn't worn a jacket out that day, as it was rather warm, and instead opted for shorts and a t-shirt, his regular attire. He hadn't intended on staying out so late. By now, Peeta was sure to be home. He reviewed his plan as he walked. He would walk into the house, probably to find Peeta cooking dinner, or baking, and immediately present him with the pin. Peeta would be so ecstatic and surprised that he would immediately jump into Cato's arms, and they would lie on the couch, kissing and professing their love to one another. Then, after they had settled down and eaten, he would confront Peeta about his drinking, and Peeta would apologize and promise to never lay his eyes upon any liquor again. They would be so relieved that they would make love right there, on the floor. It was foolproof. Cato knew that the gift was the perfect way to get his love's mind off of his misery.

Cato approached the front door of his house with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning. The lights in the house were on, and gave a warm glow to the exterior façade by glowing faintly out the front windows. Cato pulled open the door hastily, as the residents had taken to leaving it open for each other most of the time, and kicked his boots off right inside the doorway, before shutting it behind him and hurrying into the kitchen where he assumed he would find Peeta.

The kitchen lay silently, looking ransacked. There was no Peeta to be found, no dinner cooking, nothing in the oven. It was a peculiar sight. When Cato wasn't home, Peeta was always in the kitchen. What was worse, the kitchen was a mess, with cups and utensils strewn everywhere, and cabinets and drawers left open and destroyed. Cato grew worried. This wasn't like Peeta at all, to leave everything a mess in his wake. His heartbeat quickened, and his hands clenched in fists. The worst crossed his mind.

"Peeta?" He yelled into the silence, the sound echoing around the walls in an eerie manner. There was no reply. Cato hurried from the kitchen into the adjacent living room, hoping he would find Peeta there, lying on the coach after a long day's work, having fallen asleep. The room was empty.

"PEETA!" Cato's cries grew frantic, repeating the baker's name over and over in the silence, hoping for something, anything. As he scoured the house for his love, he tried to console himself with thoughts that Peeta had only stayed late at the bakery, had gotten distracted on the way home, or had stopped to visit with Haymitch. His paranoia kicked in, a remnant of the games. Someone had taken Peeta. Peeta was in danger. Peeta was going to die.

When he reached the stairs, Cato took them two at a time, stumbling up them toward their shared bedroom off the hallway to the right. He had checked the entire house, with no sign of Peeta to be found except the wake of destruction left behind. The upstairs hallway was in much the same condition, with the pictures that had been hung on the walls dejectedly facedown on the carpet floor. The bedroom door was open at the end of the hall, and Cato ran to it, hoping he would find Peeta.

Upon the bed in the middle of the room lay Peeta, crying. He was hunched over in the fetal position, without a shirt, and his shoes strewn across the room. Cato was shocked. He stood at the doorway for a second, watching, before coming to his senses and striding toward the form on the bed. He had never seen Peeta in such a state of vulnerability before. Even though Cato regarded himself as the rock in their relationship, Peeta was always equally brave and strong for the both of them, never crying except after Katniss had died. He placed his hand over Peeta's shaking shoulder, and gathered him in his arms. Peeta reeked of alcohol. The entire room, in fact, had a rancid smell, as though someone had doused the sheets in liquor and vomit. At Cato's touch, Peeta sobbed louder, then began hiccupping as tough to quiet himself. Cato rocked him gently.

"It's okay, I'm here," he assured Peeta, folding the prone figure into his arms. Even though Peeta was largely muscled and of average height, he fit easily into Cato's arms. Cato rose and carried the baker to the bathroom, allowing Peeta to bury his head into his shoulders.

The bathroom was a mess. It was obvious Peeta had been retching earlier, unable to clean himself up on his own. Cato sighed, pulling back the shower curtain with his foot, and disentangling his arms and legs so he could set him down. Peeta watched him, his breath hitching every so often as he turned on the water and let it run a bit before disrobing and helping Peeta to remove his shorts. Peeta obliged, but refused to make eye contact in his shame.

Cato pulled the shorter man close to his chest, cooing and shushing him with gentle caresses, and got into the tub with Peeta, holding the other close.

"Why, Peeta?" he asked, his own voice catching. He was so distraught. He had no idea how to handle this, how he could help the deeply troubled man he loved. "Why do you do this to yourself?"

At the question, Peeta remained silent. What felt like hours but was only a few pregnant seconds passed, before Peeta turned to Cato over his shoulder. His eyes were sad, and empty, yet equally full of despair. They closed, and he turned his head back to face the wall. He had no answer. There were no words for the way the Games played back on an infinite loop, tormenting him. Cato did not ask him for an answer again.

They sat under the stream of water, Cato rubbing Peeta's back as he sobbed. He didn't understand why Cato took care of him like this, why he didn't just leave and find a lover who wasn't so damaged. He felt so ashamed of himself, as though he were merely a child. He didn't struggle when Cato dried him off and carried him to their bed so they could both fall to sleep in each other's arms. He did not struggle, but he felt as the last shreds of his dignity left his body, and fully surrendered himself to his helplessness.

Cato watched Peeta sleep fitfully. He had become too acquainted with alcohol, Cato knew, and there was a long road of more despair before he would be able to fix the whole thing. He knew the shame his lover felt, and yet had no solution; he was as helpless as Peeta. Cato did not sleep that night, his mind racing with questions.

When Peeta woke, his head throbbed. The house was quiet save for his ragged breathing and the ebb of Cato's chest against his back. He did not move, allowing himself to take in the previous night's events.

Peeta did not remember much, except that he had done an excessive amount of crying. It explained the swollen feel to his eyes. He knew he had been at the bakery, when he had been struck with the memory of Katniss; Katniss singing the valley song, Katniss at the reaping, volunteering for her sister, Katniss and the way her eyes had lit up when she saw him during the games, Katniss when she fell from the edge of the cornucopia, Katniss being ripped to shreds – it had all been too much, and he had fallen to the flour-covered floor, shaking. Finally, he had managed to crawl to the liquor cabinet and drink himself into obscurity, stumbling his way home and into bed to cry out the memory of his first love. Cato had come, then, some time later, and he had felt so ashamed, so pathetic. He was hardly worth anything, hardly worth the suffering in Cato's eyes.

Peeta sighed, and then turned to look at Cato. The man was wide awake, his eyes forgiving and inquiring. Peeta met them with his own, then turned away and pull himself out of Cato's embrace and out of bed.

"I'm going to the bakery," he muttered, before standing and shuffling to the armoire in which his clothes were folded neatly. He pulled out a nondescript shirt and pants, dressed quickly, and made his way toward the front door without pause. Cato followed on his heels, watching like a hawk. It was unnerving. Peeta wanted solitude, not the protection he was offered. He did not say anything, but opened the front door and hurried down the steps, refusing to look back.

As Cato watched Peeta descend the front steps of the porch at the front of the house, he sighed wantonly. The sun was just edging over the horizon, brilliant plumes of color painting the sky. Like the morning, he knew that his and Peeta's battle was just beginning. Seldom an addiction had an easy remedy. Combined with the trauma of the recent events in both of their lives, Cato expected fully an extended recovery for the both of them. He shook his head, Peeta's form having finally dropped from view around the corner of the fence that bordered the Victor's Village. He turned on his heel and headed into the house, ready to confront the mess they had left the night before.

On the floor in the bedroom lay the pants he had worn yesterday, the mockingjay pin forgotten in the depths of his pocket.

Peeta walked to the bakery more slowly that usual. Walking so early in the morning was always a treat. The silence of the wildlife and the people asleep in their beds comforted him, and allowed him time to think without fear of intrusion, or Cato's prodding. Sometimes, he had come to believe, a man needed solitude in order to work out the tragedy in his life. He loved Cato, but wished he had more time to himself. Memories of the games were constantly played back in his head, as though the switch had broken and now they were stuck on a constant loop. Alcohol had become his safety net. It shut off the power to his nightmares, and gave him peace in his times of horror.

He was jostled from his thoughts when he reached the front door of his bakery in the market. It had been rebuilt after the bombing during the rebellion, and he had imported many very expensive ingredients from the capitol so that he could experiment with high quality wares. His favorite import, by far, was the rum he had gotten for the delicate rum cakes he sometimes baked for parties. Peeta shuffled to the cabinet where the bottle was held, and poured himself a stiff glass.

He needed a drink.

_Author's Note:_

_I will begin with two details about the writing of this story: The first, being that I have never written about addiction or depression in such a way as I have above. Addiction is something that is extremely personal to me, as I struggled with problems myself throughout adolescence, that were largely caused in part by my depression. I have also recently lost two friends to their problems with alcohol. This work was therapeutic in that I was able to express my feelings in a way that didn't dredge up too many unpleasant memories._

_The second is the length of this particular one-shot. I didn't feel that the plot demanded enough to be lengthened into a multi-chapter story, but rather a one shot. However, once I began to write, I was worried that, had I written it in the manner I had intentionally planned, it would not do enough justice to the original idea. I also wanted to make sure that I captured as authentically as I could the original demeanors of Suzanne Collin's characters. That is, truly, why we read fan fiction. It is an extension of a story with characters we have come to love. I didn't want to stray into the "OOC" territory that many writers often do, for I prefer the authenticity of Suzanne's portrayal._

_With all of this said, I want to thank any readers for their attention, and all those who will review the story. I also want to thank anyone who has read my other one shot, We Two Boys, and anyone who is following my work. It means a great deal to be appreciated and critiqued by peers. My disclaimer follows._

_None of the characters depicted in this story belong to me, although I have done my best to do justice to them in the way intended by the author. Suzanne Collins is a lovely writer who has told a beautiful story. In no way do I mean to offend anyone involved._


End file.
